Tome of the Dragon I: Tower and Blade
by coldraven
Summary: In a realm rent by violence and intrigue, scoured by magic and haunted by war, one man sets out in pursuit of destiny. And to discover that which he is. Rated M for later chapters with violence & 'romance'. I'm new to fanfiction so reviews will be good
1. Exodus

Alright, this is just something I've been doing to pass the time. Its based on Dota, which is pretty popular so a number of you guys should know it. In any case, its about the life of man named Davion. I'm kinda inexperienced, the the odd review would go a long way/

Erm...here goes.

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If you are reading this dear reader, I would assume that my time and world has long passed, borne upon the wings of the eons. Memory after all is a fickle thing, helpless against the corruption of exaggeration and twisting. Truth is lost in a generation, replaced by lies the ignorant call fact. Not even the Elves, immortal and wisest of all denizens of this world can truly recall what has passed upon the passage of the millennia. But here dear reader, with my hand that has known both sword and pen do I record my story with the hope that it will live on, that will serve as a memorial for those who had sacrificed so much in my thankless service. Perhaps, the hope I bear now is genuine, or perhaps it is my vanity that spurs me on to immortalize myself in time and memory. But that I think, is for you to judge.

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Every story I would suppose needs a fit beginning, but if you would forgive my unoriginality and ramblings, I think I shall start by giving you a brief notion of who I am. The reader after all, should not be kept in the dark about such basics that would, if unaddressed, no doubt haunt this tale as a wounded but unfinished foe would hound his supposed enemy till his thirst for vengeance is sated by death and blood.

To start I think, you would want my name which incidentally is the most trivial and unimportant aspect of myself. I have gone by many names in my time, casting one aside to put on another as easily as one might change his cloak. But in any case, you may know me as Davion app Neb. And I am a bastard.

That done, I believe the time for ramblings has passed and we can commence.

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My earliest memories were that of smoke and terror and even that is now vague. Perhaps I did remember more of my childhood before the time when fire and death traversed the realm of tale and into reality, but the stark horror of those days was sufficient to wipe them from my young mind. In any case, I can clearly remember an instant as I stood amid a panicked mob that ran amongst the filth ridden gutters and tenements with strange single mindedness in spite of their apparent lack of order. Still, to think back, their motives were simple, flee the fire and the Naga that gnashed at our heels.

I staggered and stumbled in the general direction of the exodus, moving as quickly as my child's legs might have carried me. Prior to the events that I now write, I vaguely recall living the life of a scamp, cavorting about the docks and hovels that were piled upon the edges of Trisamore, creating a phalanx of poverty and filth between the wealthier regions of the city and the sea.

It was there that the Naga first struck.

Even at that tender age, I was no stranger to running or hiding, but even that did little to prepare me for the stampede I now found myself in. The air as I might have mentioned, reeked of smoke and fire. My eyes burned and watered as the smoke assailed them, reducing what vision I had to a blur, the tears that they shed in defense mingled with the tears of fear that too ran freely down my soot encrusted cheeks. I clawed at them with my ash covered hands only to get more of that vile black powder in my eyes, the pain soon discouraged me from my futile attempt that served only to aggravate the pain and I ran on, crying, screaming and cursing with the rest of the mob.

What was worse than that however, was the fever. Much of that I will leave out for now, though entwined as it was and still is with my life, it would be but a distraction at this moment. Thus all I will say at this point is that in my childhood, I was plagued by bouts of fever and cold sweat that would come upon me like a fit, accompanied by mad mutters and murmurs whose meaning then eluded me like a song once known but forgotten. It was as you might imagine, an extremely inconvenient time for such a thing to take place and thus I ran on, half delirious with fever and fear, wondering if each breath would be my last. Strangely, the only small comfort I found was from the fire that devoured the city that had been my home for five or six years, I had always liked heat.

I ran on and on, through the slop and muck that yet clung to the streets, heedless of those who fled by my side. Many a time did I glimpse one slip over the uneven cobblestones, only to disappear as he was trampled by his likewise fear stricken compatriots, even his dying screams were lost in the cacophony and madness. The air had taken on a strange reddish tint that I came to associate with the fires of war, but fear ruled me then, and I can recall little more save the general panic and chaos that spurred me to greater heights of terror. Not once I think, do I recall seeing any signs of the Naga that sowed the seeds of destruction upon the city, but they were no doubt there.

But sometimes it seems, the Gods do grant a miracle, even if it is to but have their mortal subjects maintain a certain semblance of faith in the credibility of their powers. Staggering, gagging and in the very real danger of falling beneath the feet of the single mad organism that inexorably surged forward, I saw the soldiers.

There were perhaps a dozen or so of them, boys too young to shave and old men who leaned heavily upon the heavy iron shafts of their spears. They little in the form of armour nor held anything deadlier then a rusted spear, the insignias on their leather breastplates I later learnt, marked them as naught more then a ragtag assortment of irregulars and the city militia. Men too young or decrepit to fight. But to my fear and fever addled mind, they came like avenging Angels to pull us from the depths of the thirteen hells, and they had wagons.

The will to survive I've come to learn, is only closely linked to madness. To protect the fragile shells that encase our souls, men would descend into a riot of madness and frenzied action to defend that which is most precious to them. I have seen comrades offer each other to the cold bite of a blade to safeguard their lives and mothers who abandoned children in their drive to live, but the sheer collective madness of that day yet haunts my memory.

The mob it seemed, were goaded to a further level of frenzy and fear at the sight of salvation that waited before them. They swarmed forth, heedless of the guards who strove to maintain a semblance of order that never existed. More men were trampled and crushed as the mob sought to scramble aboard the wagons, more then one of those rickety contraptions buckled under the weight of its load as dozens or more climbed upon them. A hundred brawls broke out like little pockets of insanity amongst the general chaos. I skirted a brawny unkempt man who bawled and smashed a ham sized fist into the face of a guard who impaled him upon the notched edge of a short sword, both men going down as I made my way past them. I shoved and sidled my way through the crush of bodies, winding around the forest of legs and abdomens. I remember my face brushing across countless others, flesh pressing against flesh with the closeness of lovers, but with fear in place of intimacy, feeling the breath and touch of others as I did so, never in my life had I been in such close contact with people. My heart skipped a beat and thundered when I squeezed past a woman, her heavy bosom brushing against my crown, but the drive to live I think, overrode all that of modestly. Thus I got away with that transgression. At that time, it would have had been a moment of triumph and glory for me I think, if I hadn't been on the point of retching in fear and fever.

By the grace of sheer luck, I somehow shove, fought and bit my way before a wagon. To see that rotting, fire damaged cart, already spilling with filthy unwashed bodies was bliss that came like a break in the clouds of my terror. I swooned in relief and nausea that the fever brought on, only saved from falling by my flailing hand that somehow caught the side of the wagon, blood welled on my palm as splinters penetrated my soft flesh. With one last titanic burst of effort, I pulled myself upon the wooden planks. I collapsed as soon as my feet touched the wooden boards, my head banging hard against the bottom of the wagon. But I was beyond pain.

Fever and exhaustion that fear had warded at bay crashed down upon me. My vision swum and the world seemed though a flood had banished it beneath the depths of Oceanus's realm. Still, neither sleep nor oblivion laid their claim to me.

I watched in blissful paralysis as a guard leapt between the clamoring crowd and the wagon, jabbing his spear to keep all but the most desperate at bay. He placed a hand onto the wooden planks of the wagon, pulling himself up as he lashed put one last time to dissuade the mob from surging forth. For a moment, I saw the soldier in his entirety. His grey, unwashed beard that yet had morsels of food clinging upon the grey tangle of bristles, his dull eyes that cataracts were starting to claim, the set of his mouth that was caught between a grimace and a snarl, the long bleeding gash on his arm and the rank stink that came off him. But all I saw was another fearful man, forsaking his brethren so that he might live, just as I was doing. He barked a guttural order that lost upon my ears which resonated with the mad mutters that crawled from the depths of my mind, and we were off. I lay upon the wagon and watched the mob that I left behind, and never did I feel any pity for them. I had fought, struggled, and lived, and for that I foster no regrets.

Oblivion finally saw it fit to claim me.

I only surfaced to consciousness once during that journey. In spite of the warm summer's afternoon, it was bitterly cold, and an unnatural darkness had fallen. Jolted with a momentary burst of energy born of fear, I rose on my elbows and sent a worried glance at the rest who packed the wagon, marking a similar fear in some. But many yet sat with their heads buried in their knees, disconsolate and crippled by the bone numbing mental and physical weariness that fear leaves in its wake. Neither death nor hope could stir them for now.

I turned to the soldier beside me, seeking childish comfort in the wounded old man by my side. It would've been laughable had I not been so afraid. The soldier must have caught me staring at him, for he looked down and appraised me with a rough glare that strangely conveyed no hostility. It was but the look a war-weary veteran would've deigned to give one as young and terrified as I was. The soldier gave a snort of harsh laughter and shook his shaggy locks.

"Deathknights boy, the Thirteen ride. That is what brings this darkness. But me thinks we're not what they want. Reckon they want Purist." He jerked a gnarled finger at a red glow on the horizon, the city it seemed, had gone completely aflame. He brought a flask to his lips, tipping its contents down his throats before offering it to me, "Yer want some?"

I shook my head, too weary to speak, my fever sputtering itself out though the dizziness remained. The events of this morning seemed like naught more than another fever dream. I wondered if I still was in one, wondered if I would wake up to find myself lying in another of Trisamore's numerous gutters, wondered if my life could be salvaged.

"Yer okay?"

I couldn't bring myself to answer. Besides, what answer did I have?

"Yer mute?"

I shook my head.

"Bah, just go back te sleep." He dismissed me with a rough wave of his hand.

And I did.

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	2. Found

First light had come when I roused from my slumber to witness the muted activity that bustled around our wagon. Most of my fellow refugees had already disembarked the cart with what meager belongs they had at the time of the exodus; the old soldier was no where in sight.

I stood, painfully aware of the weakness in my limbs. They were sapped of strength, so limp and lifeless that twitching my fingers to once again get the blood flowing through them seemed an effort. From my elevated position atop the wagon, I swiveled my head, shivering from the bitter cold that bit through my rags and sank its fangs into my tender flesh. Our travels through the night had brought us along the berth of the Nerzaka, back to the cradle of the great river, to the foothills of Mount Ki-Elias, the ever winter peaks, which served as a refugee camp for the displaced in this region. All this I did not know at that time, I was cold, hungry, miserable and still my fever burned.

Hunger served as a powerful motivation to move. I stumbled from the wagon and ambled over the makeshift street lined with crates and weather-worn tents. There was a thin layer of frost on the rocky ground, but even that bit through the thin sandals I wore and froze my soles. Still, I stamped down harder upon the frozen ground, hoping that this freezing land would drive off the flames that consumed me from within. I swooned and staggered as another wave of nausea and discomfit struck me like an iron gloved fist. Yet, in spite of the crush of beings, human, orc, dwarf that surrounded me, not one helped, not one saw me. I was just another orphan of war amongst thousands. Tears I think, welled unbidden in my eyes, but I was cold and starving and it was only when a salty droplet touch my lips did I realize that I was crying. I had but escaped one hell into another. Sometimes, I still wonder I should have died, slain by the Naga when Trisamore fell. But that is no longer for me to judge, I have lived long and seen much, thus it would be unfair to say that I was better off dead.

I stumbled on without purpose or direction, dimly aware of a pressing weight which crushed down upon me. Tendrils of darkness ate at my vision, the chill now bit at my bones, warring with the raging furnace that burned within. It was then I think, when my knees folded beneath me and darkness rushed forth from the depths in which it lay concealed that I realized how alone I was.

I missed the home I knew I'd never again see. Yes, Trisamore was in its own way a tiny hell in itself. The docks where my friends and I would cavort were choked with filth and the remnants of society, vagabonds, petty criminals and murderers. It was a foul, dangerous place for the uninitiated, filled with dark mysteries and darker secrets. Disease and suffering was rampant there, taking lives daily with the brutal efficiency of any army. Yet I missed watching the sunlight play across those murky waters, the rough barks and snarls of the sailors, missed the children with whom I'd idle my days with, slitting the purses of the unwitting and finding odd work where we could. Still, it was home and it was gone. I recklessly plunged ahead into the darkness, praying for respite from my fears and to escape this world in which I was utterly lost.

But whether by Hextar's design or grace, he found me then.

Lying upon that bed of snow that beckoned with all the persuasive force of a cold grave, I saw the Night Elf.

True to the rumors that spoke of his people, his skin was a bizarre mottled shade of purple. The Elf was tall, towering over the crowd of hunched figure who gazed upon his somber countenance with mingled fear and awe; even in that day, Elves were rarely seen but oft heard of.

He bent over me, his misty white pupiless eyes holding mine in the thrall of their unearthly radiance. Yet, there was a palatable aura of concern, or was it fear that seeped through the mantle of eternal splendor that every Elf wore with casual grace. He peered into my electric blue eyes, seemingly scrutinizing the depths of my mind and soul. I was trapped, caught between horror and fascination that this walking myth that stood over me. Incoherent thoughts of what I was to become overwhelmed rationality, my fever burned and a choked stammer blurted from my lips. Whether it was a plea or a curse I do not remember, but I was afraid, and for some fathomless reason, he even more so.

The Elf reached forward hesitantly, as if afraid to touch me, but resolved to accomplish in action that thought which flitted upon the alien paths that riddled his ancient mind. I too was horrorstruck at the thought of contact between my body and the skin of his wide purple palm, but as my body made to cringe from his touch, strength deserted me. My weakness it seemed, fueled his resolve. He sprang, reaching over with surprising speed and force, fingers clutching my forehead with painful force. I kicked and writhed with what pathetic vigor that yet remained in my exhausted muscles, leaving none for screams that so desperately wanted to escape my throat. Some I think, paused to watch our laughable parody of a struggle, but none helped, none dared.

My struggled died with the last of what strength my body had availed me and I ceased my thrashing to gaze upon the Elf who held me at his mercy. There was no malice or ill will upon that ancient face. Rather, he seemed to regard me with the fascination and caution one would accord a particularly dangerous beast. Still, the painful grip of his fingers slackened, though the grave set of his face pronounced its own judgment over me. My innocent mind wondered what wrong I had committed, what trespass I had done to incur the wrath of an Elf. Fear ruled me and again I started to struggle.

This time however, my feeble efforts were thwarted in an instant. His hand clamped down upon my forehead like a vise, a single word spitting forth from his lips.

"_Anudora!_"

There was some hidden power in that word, force that slammed into my being like a fist of air and shadow. I reeled and shuddered under his sudden attack, stunned by whatever magicks had lain in that one word. Sudden weariness flooded me, tearing away my armor of resolve and fear. I sank upon the ground, numb, unfeeling, too tired to know fear or anger. Yet, in that fugue of exhaustion and weakness, I was dimly aware that my fever had broken.

Slumped upon the ground, I could help but comply when the Elf picked me up, my face nestling against his shaggy beard that cascaded to his waist, forehead lightly resting against the broad length of his shoulder. He bore me into oblivion.

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I slept fitfully through most of the day and into the late hours of the night, lulled into a Cradle of peace and serenity I had not known since the days of my earliest memories. When I awoke, it was without fear or apprehension when I found myself within the dimly lit confines of a tent. It was warm and the rich aroma of food permeated the air, mingling with the scent of incense and herbs which I can put no to. The Elf sat hunched across me in the tent, still staring at me with wary apprehension that one would accord a feral beast. My eyes worked well in spite of the half-light and the smoke that stung them and in the dim glow I appraised him.

Like all of his kind, my captor and savior tall, but with a girth to match his height, something uncommon amongst the typically wiry Elves. With his beard and lined face that exuded wisdom beyond that which I now even hope to ever attain, the Elf offered a portrait of age, knowledge and benevolence. I nearly cried when I first came to properly look upon him. There is something distinctly heartrending and innocent in the way a child would entrust one will all at first sight, a purity we lost with age. That I think, was how I first came to trust him, I gave him the love of a child as soon as I saw him.

He reached for the cook pot that sat stewing over a firepit between us, spooning out a generous portion of stew that he offered me with that mix of hesitancy and apprehension. Ravenous as I was, I sprang and seized the bowl, devouring its contents in an eye blink without thought or pause to savor its contents. If my atrocious mannerisms offended him, the Elf betrayed no sign of it. He gave a brief nod as I finished, still regarding me with mild fear that left me discomfited. What was it about me that would trouble him so? Still, I was hungry and in heaven, such matters at that time took precedence in the mind of a child.

"More?" the Elf asked in common, his voice a rich, ancient timbre that inexplicably conjured images of an ancient grove of oaks that stood since the birth and shaping of this world. For a moment, I could almost envision myself running through the trees, alone yet comforted by the silent sentinels that stood watch over the young capering child in their midst, heartened by the new blood that once again came amongst them.

I nodded, exuberated by his offer of more food. I thrusted the bowl back at him, a toothy grin splitting my face. He started, disarmed by my sudden smile; then he too gave me a small grin and proceeded to spoon me another helping of stew.

"Ahh, you enjoy it."

I laughed, nodding with childish vigor as I took the steaming bowl from his hands and once again proceeded to wolf down the stew of roots and meat with alacrity that replaced grace. All this while, the Elf once again settled upon a rug and watched me. Still, a certain sense of companionship now lingered where fear had once ruled, we were both visibly relaxed as I emptied the dregs that clung to the sides of the bowl.

"What is your name, youngling?"

My gaze to him and I knew a moment of uncertainty. Names were dangerous things, the law of the streets that I grew up in dictated that wise do not readily offer such information. But the Elf before me was different, ancient, wise beyond my childish comprehension and, now that I am a little wiser and more cynical, beguiling.

"Davion, sir," I blurted, certain in my childish confidence that there was nothing he could do to me. I was young, strong and invincible and completely ensorcelled by the majesty of the ancient before me.

The Elf nodded, there was something sagely in that gesture. It is strange how the mere movement of one's muscles could produce an effect that conveyed such depth of knowledge and wisdom, "Davion? A good name, rare, but strong. Mine would be Syllabear, in your tongue it might mean messenger perhaps, or maybe simply word."

"Syllabear," I toyed with his name, enjoying the word's feel as it rolled off my tongue, "you are an Elf," I proudly proclaimed.

"That I am," he stood, towering above my tiny frame, a shadow of old fear flitting across his visage, "and you are..."

"A boy," I chirped, too young to be concerned at his imperfectly hidden thoughts.

"That you are," Syllabear replied genially, he might have loosed a soft sigh in relief, a motion too discreet for me to have noticed as peculiar, "Where are your parents?"

"Have none," I stated matter-of-factly, it was to six year old mind, a fact of life that I bore without rancor or bitterness, "I am an..." I paused, wrecking my brains for the required word, "...orphan. Yeah, that's it. Mista Alga used to call me that. Orphan boy, son of a whore who died of the pox," I merrily sing-songed, mimicking the harsh rasp of the old barkeep. Obviously I didn't comprehend those words at my age.

Syllabear just nodded, I think he made a concerted effort to ignore the filth I had unknowingly uttered, "I see." He bent low, examining my face with an expression of utmost intent. Pinned by that scrutinizing stare, I squirmed in discomfort. Finally, he sighed and smiled, "Would you like to come with me?"

"Where?" I do admit, I was intrigued by this offer of his.

"Darnassus," Syllabear whispered in tones of near reverence, "the ancient realm of my kind, would you like to see what few mortal eyes have beheld?"

I hardly understood his words or the implications that lay hidden in their folds, but that low tone that spoke of conspiracy and wonder enthralled me, it was sorcery in itself. I could not help but instantly agree.

Syllabear stood, he gestured, encompassing the tent in a single sweep of his massive arm, "Well then, help me with these, we leave at once."

Elation I think, could hardly describe the emotion that welled in me. I was a young man out on an adventure, like the heroes and demigods that walked the lesser trodden path that unraveled itself before my feet.

"Darnassus," I whispered, it rang of comfort, of food, of mysteries and wonders that defied the human imagination, and most of all, it bore the hope of a home.

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	3. Home

Thanks to whoever it was who reviewed it. Its heartening to know that at least someone has read it. Still, enjoy yourselves and I'd hope you drop a note. Budding writers need it to improve. Good Luck and enjoy.

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To the weary traveler, home is a poignant miracle for the heart, mind and spirit. One does not truly appreciate the familiar comforts of the hearth and a roof till one is seduced by the road, that all tempting mistress that rips the foundations of stability from beneath your feet.

I left one home in flames, running as Trisamore's foundations crumbled at my back. And I found Darnassus.

Yet, to think back at how I allowed Syllabear to spirit me off in the depths of the night, how I fled at his heels from a life I quietly detested, I cannot help but wonder where that foolishly trusting boy went. I do not remember much of that long journey, riding across the wide, parched plains of Elicta till we came upon the banks of the mighty Gyole. And many leagues yet from there, past the haunted marshes that ringed the Spiritwood and through the shadows of Ashenvale till finally, finally we arrived upon the threshold of Darnassus. And for ten short but happy years, I lived and grew in Darnassus under the tutelage of Syllabear, Bear-Lord and master spirit-caller of the druidic circle.

Darnassus is I suppose, rightfully termed a city. Or rather, it served as meeting point for the quasi-nomadic Elves who ranged the fringes of Ashenvale as they willed, quartering the markets and Citadels where Furion ruled with his circle of Druids and Priestesses. Even so, one would scarcely recognize it as thus. It was a realm of tree bowers and nondescript huts, large artificial constructs were few and far between, it was yet for forest then town. Dull tenting and open markets would be witnessed from time to time when the traders came under the full light of Elune, bringing in their wake the swarms and festivities that would for a time breathe life into the silent city. Then, with the passing of Elune's light, the city would die again, reverting into its forbidding façade as it awaited the hour of its rebirth. Still, I was one of the few permanent inhabitants of the city and there I grew, watching the cycles of birth and death that took place with the waning and waxing of the moon.

The course of my childhood and education amongst the Elves was scarcely a topic for question. From the first days of my arrival, all was prepared and provided for. There was an unspoken consent between myself and Syllabear that I would join the war when age permitted. That destiny I believe, had long been since preordained, but I embraced it with a sense of wrathful fervor born of the desire to avenge my lost home.

In those early years, I spent my time largely amongst the company of females, whilst I lived and trained beneath the roof of the Hall of Hunters, an organization within the Elven community that oversaw the training of warriors, most if not all which were female. Elven males, I came to learn, spent the majority of their time delving into the arcane under the tutelage of the druidic circle. With the exception of Syllabear's occasional visit, I saw little of my own gender save the occasion Demon Hunter, but none of course were allowed to speak to the legendary pariahs. It is such I think that me to crave the company of various women throughout different stages of my life and journey, but that will be chronicled in its due time.

Still, those years were pleasurable though fairly painful in literal terms. Discipline was strict but not unduly harsh, we awoke at first dark to break our fast before evening calisthenics began. That was followed by sparring that took place through most of the night. Night after night, I pitted my practice blade and strength against preternatural speed and skill of the Elven huntresses, dealing and receiving many a bruise. Those years hardened my body and mind, battles became a dance of blades and test of wills rather then a crude exercise in brawn. I learnt to weather the storm of attacks that would come my way, capitalizing on my prodigious strength to overpower my foes at the first sign of an opening, yet I never mastered getting over the taboo of fighting a female and many of my blows were softened though I received little in kind. Still, under the Light of Elune, I feinted, pummeled and thrashed my way through my training till day I was deemed fit to join the raids.

It was then that battle took on a different edge. I rode out with my sisters-in-arms, to rout the sporadic Satyr incursions into Ashenvale. We were the demons of the forest, harbingers of wrath's hand, bursting from the cover of the shadows to slaughtering those who would desecrate our sacred groves. It was in those moments of madness, when we rode in amongst the Satyr warbands, blades scything through the air to cut them down like wheat, that death transcended tale and into reality. Her word was heard in the dying gasps of our foes, her hand seen in a spray of blood and her kiss in the cold steel of my blade. Training can only go so far, much of battle is yet simply a frenzied blur and struggle to come out with your appendages intact.

Injuries were common but oft gave little cause for much concern. When we did encounter the rare catastrophe of losing a member of our party, we would ride into the Spiritwood in bitter rage. Borne upon the wings of avenging furies we hunted the Satyrs on their ancestral lands, butchering communities down to the last demon child and putting entire villages to the torch with the name of vengeance upon our lips. We were young and violent, the gods of war and a law unto ourselves. Those were the years of bliss.

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It was chill night when I awoke to find Syllabear's wide girth silhouetted by the threshold of my chamber. I blinked, surprised at his unannounced entrance, the Bear-Lord's visits were usually heralded by the Mistress of the Hall long before I glimpsed the shaggy visage of my master. I rolled, deftly gaining my footing to stride before him, bowing low in greeting, "Sire."

In the half light, my up-tilted gaze caught the barest glimpse of a paternal smile that curled the edges of his lips. My heart pounded with that heady mixture of reverence and love I had come to accord my lord and father, silent thanks forming on my lips as he placed a hand upon my forehead.

"_Anudora!"_

I shuddered and rocked on the balls of my feet, stumbling as though from a collision with a galloping destrider as power coursed through my veins, barely aware of the meaty palm that closed on my shoulder and held me. I steeled my body, rising with the help of his strength to meet his gaze. It was a necessary evil, this strike of power that he inflicts upon me; I gave him a worn smile of thanks as I met his gaze.

Syllabear acknowledged with a silent nod, we stood face to face, silence hanging like a veil between us, at last his lips parted, "Davion, are you well?"

"Yes sire, the power of your touch quells the fevers."

"And the voice?"

"It remains," I hesitated, inwardly cringing at the thought of those mad murmurs that haunted my dreams, but I added quickly, "but they're of no consequence, sire." I scanned that ancient face, delving into its nigh unreadable depths to fathom upon the mechanisms that spun the wheels of his aged mind. Yet, it would seem that with age comes a strange cloak that guards the face, burying thought and expression beneath a mask of age and lines. I wondered if he detected my lie and settled on the fact that it was foregone conclusion and that I shouldn't have even attempted to think on it in the first place. No doubt he would've read it off my face.

But if Syllabear was contemplating on chastising me for my lie, he passed it, heaving his expansive frame down the corridor, "Come."

I was left in a state of near bewilderment, still in my rough tunic I strode after him. For him to come by on an infrequent visit unannounced was remarkable enough in itself, but this was unprecedented. I briefly wondered how the Mistress would take to this sudden departure, or the reactions of my sisters-in-arms. I've always taken certain pride in being reliable, and such course of action came across as abandonment. But my master's word has always taken precedence above all. Still, I hung back, pondering for a moment upon the wisdom of blindly coming to heel, before deciding that I was no man's follower.

"There is a patrol on tonight sire, I am to take part in it." I stopped in my tracks, fighting to keep a firm stare upon Syllabear's retreating back. He paused and then continued at his slow amble, a hand waving to dismiss my concerns.

"No matter, our business is far more pressing. Come child."

Child? I felt a moment of truculent indignation at being absently address as such, but decided on to start a contest on the matter, my thirteen years must have appeared but a brief flutter in time to an ancient such as he. Like the indigent child he had so thoughtlessly portrayed me as, I trotted at his heels, a step behind his lumbering gait as we trekked our way from the living quarters and out under the night sky. Our pace faltered as Syllabear looked to the heavens, upon the tapestry of stars that blanketed the cloak of darkness that was our sanctuary, "Elune's light shines tonight," he murmured to no one in particular and carried on.

We passed the Councilors Chambers as we made our way to the outskirts of Darnassus, I slowed to look upon the worked stone and low curving spires that adorned the structure, sorely tempted to diverge from my path to inspect the remarkable edifice that sat in the hear of a city otherwise devoid of any constructs larger then the average bower. But Syllabear showed no inclination of allowing me to indulge my whims; or rather he was utterly oblivious of his young charge and walked on without a backwards glance. There was naught I could do but follow in silence while, trying at any rate, to conceal the annoyance that I felt. It is hard now to remember where my affections for him stemmed from, but I suppose he was a good man in general terms.

Our path, or rather the path that which Syllabear dictated with his inexorable forward motion and my inability to assert my will on the current course of events, lead us across the forested length of the main road and to the outskirts of Darnassus where the silent Watchers granted into the lands beyond. From thereon, we left the worn but serviceable road and continued into the woods. Like massive forbidding sentinels, the trees flanked us as we passed through the darkness of their shadows, I heard the gurgle of the stream before we saw it, but the bubbling brook where we finally settled by was still a pleasing sight by all accounts.

The Bear Lord sat cross legged by the brooks edge, impassively motioning for me to do so. I obliged, placing myself directly opposite him where I could dimly make out the craggy features of his face under the pale light of the moon. Silence persisted as we regarded one another, I felt a certain sense of nervousness, not due to the fact that I feared Syllabear but the fear that he seemed to emanate. It was faint and nigh impossible to detect, but I seemed to harbor some sensitivity towards such emotions of fear and unease, seldom does such a ripple pass undetected in my presence.

"All upon Gaia is of her body, the birds, the trees, Man, Orc and Elf," he murmured distantly, "we are all connected through the threads of creation, of life." He placed a hand upon the soft earth, and held mine in his other, "We are one and all, children of Gaia, body of Gaia, soul of Gaia. Now come, walk with me."

I felt a certain sense of vertigo as the ground fell away and the sensation Syllabear's hand upon mine faded. I felt weightless, borne upon the winds, yet firmed rooted into the earth. I smelt dew and earth, tasted the nectar of the flowers, felt the good earth as it ran through my hands. Yet I had no body, no mortal flesh to encase my soul. I was one, I was all.

"This Gaia, this is you, this is I."

I sense something, Syllabear I would suppose, yet it was not him, but a form that wavered like an unsteady flame. I could see nothing and all, but I knew, I knew of the shifting being before me, knew the being before me. Both Elf and beast he was, Bear Lord he was, yet was he? I could see nothing, feel nothing, yet I was immersed in everything. The hum of the cicada, the merry voice of the brook, the breath of unseen spirits in the air, the wing-beats of a leviathan.

"This is what it means to Druid, to be a follower of Gaia, to be one with all. For now I hold you, but you will learn, you will learn to walk the line we walk, the line between man and beast. You must."

I paid him the slightest heed, giddy by this sense of knowing I felt. I knew the wind bore me towards the heavens, spiraling ever upwards into the warm arms of the celestial mother. I felt her burning embrace enfold me, cradling me in her fiery bosom. I never knew such wonder, such pleasure as her burning hands stroked me, bearing me into paradise. No, it was not paradise she brought me to, it was home. I knew it was home. I knew I smiled then, reaching out with nonexistent arms to hold that which beckoned. What it was I did not truly know, home, freedom, power. But it was what I wanted, what I needed, what I was. It was a sense of belonging that I never knew existed till that very moment when all was before me. All I needed to do was take it.

Then something invaded heaven, something struck at my home and it imploded with a shriek. In that blinding moment of knowledge and clarity, I knew there was an entity above me, the Divine Mother, greater and more powerful then that which my mortal mind could comprehend. And the Bear Lord, small and dim beside her radiance, reaching for me with arms unseen, his terror pulsing, palatable in the air.

There was a hiss from the Divine Mother as I fell from her and hell froze over. I fell, banished from the heavens and into the frozen depths of hell. My unheard screams shattered the plane upon which I walked as I plunged, ice crept up around me like the maw of a greedy beast, entrapping me within an icy crypt. I screamed again, pounding against the unyielding walls of my prison.

"_Anudora!"_

A crash sounded as my prison splintered, how I escaped being impaled by the shards of ice I do not know, nor the passage of my return into the realm of the real. But I found myself lying upon the soft earth, the stars wheeling before my blurry eyes. The air smelt of sulfur, a scent absent till now. I was weak, my body numb and feverish though the latter ebbed with time.

"Davion." Syllabear stood over me; he was shaken, more afraid than I would've ever imagined him thus. He bent over, gingerly lifting me to my feet with that mingled expression of fear and concern. I looked at him, not daring to pose my question but hoping that he would glean it from my eyes. Why had the Divine Mother come for me? Who was she? Who was I? What happened? A thousand questions, each with an answer more ludicrous than the last ripped through the giddy abyss of my mind. But if Syllabear read them, he did not deign to answer and released his grip upon my shoulder to amble off, "Come, there is one more thing I will show you."

I followed. Nothing asked, nothing offered.

Thankfully for my weary body and ravaged mind, our trek was short, ending by a tree with a mottled trunk. Splashes of pale white mingled with the dirt brown bark that protected its heartwood. Other than that, there was little special about it, though Syllabear did take a pronounced interest in the specimen and commenced stripping its bark with a small knife.

"This is Bitterbark," he grunted, cutting through the tough leathery covering of the tree with a groan of effort, "dried and chewed, it'll help you put down the fevers," he pause to make one last snarl of effort and ripped a piece of bark from the tree, "but it's strong, do not use it unless necessary." Panting and heaving, Syllabear pocketed the sizable strip that he had obtained and handed me a pouch from which I extracted a small dried square of the drug.

'Take one now, and keep the rest. But do not take more than is needed."

I nodded, my lips strangely unwilling to form any words of thanks or acknowledgement as I slipped the square of hell into my mouth. It tasted horrendous as it settled on my tongue. Bitterbark indeed. And chewing it only served to release a sticky sap that served to worsen the already horrible taste that assaulted me. But it worked as claimed, in fact the effects were nothing less than miraculous though even that did little to warm me to it. I spat out the remnants of the bark and stood straighter, hoping to hold myself high in the eyes of my master. He seemed satisfied.

"Go, we will continue our lessons on some other night. Return alone, I will walk tonight. And be careful Davion, I will not have you fall like my last failure."

I left in silence, looking back only once to see a pair of bears frolicking by the brook, their dim outlines fading as the darkness claimed them. Syllabear's final words failed to strike a chord within me, or perhaps I didn't bother to care, there little interesting in hearing about a failed apprentice nor did his life concern me in any way. Overhead, Elune smiled upon me, her light piercing the shadows of the trees to bathe my body in her radiance. Was she my Divine Mother? I think I smiled then, alone in the dark, surrounded by all and none. I was a creature of the night, I was home.

Then dawn came.


	4. Drak'Kul

Update once again.

Comments would be nice though :(

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It was I suppose fitting that change was harbingered by the rising sun. That which rides upon the Chariot of the Gods, herald of light and the new day, a bringer of change and hope. But if it was hope that dawn brought hope, then hope is a double edged blade.

It was amongst the soft shafts of first light that pierced the forest canopy like a radiant crown of spears that I walked. At the very end of my makeup, I am yet a man, and like all man, I desire the light. Through the leafy empire of the Elves I trod, dawn brought death here as surely as an army of ten thousand. The worn paths were empty, devoid of sentient life save the chatter of birdsong and a whiff of morning dew that danced upon the light wind. Yet peace was but a distant flicker of light in the darkness.

A call had come for me as the depths of night plunged into dawn, like murmur upon the gurgle of a stream, compelling yet nonexistent. Calling, drawing, a summons almost magnetic in nature, yet in its silent subtlety, power roared. A master demanded my audience and to decline was heresy. Yet trepidation was alien to me, never in those sixteen years had I known it, not even as bloodshed loomed. I was as Humans might say, a bold fool. And it was thus that I walked into the face of destiny.

I followed the music that beckoned, skirting the foot trodden path, slipping into the woods and under the bowers towards its source. _Maltea_, One, engulfed me as I walked; I was the forest, the breath of the trees, the texture of the soil, the solid rock of the world. All this I knew in my yearly years, all this war took from me. Then, like a ripple upon reality's fabric, I felt too, the disconcerting presence of _Kisha_. She moved with inexplicable grace for a creature of her size, her stealth meant it that only_ Maltea_ connected us. I was momentarily disconcerted at her sudden appearance, one does not expect to be graced by the presence of the undying, astral second heart of the Bear Lord. Still, her fleeting presence upon my consciousness meant little, my misgivings about a creature whom I watched die and yet rose again like Gaia's natural parody to the Undead was solely my own. Syllabear had sent her to watch over me, for what ends or means I did not know. But I hurried, past the Alter of Elune and its thousand wells to Tree Gate of Darnassus.

To understand the nature of what the Elves wrought with power and will, one would look upon the Tree Gate as the ultimate epitome of Elven might. It was forged from the fallen bodies of a hundred Ancients, the dead boughs of Ancient bodies bent, clustered and magicked to create an unbreachable shielded arch surrounded by an impenetrable grove that circled the realm like a protective wall. Power radiated from its warding, neither Daemon Fire nor an army of millions could breach Darnassus's impregnable defense to desecrate the groves within. Yet...my hand instinctively sought the emerald teardrop hung upon its chain around my neck, Elune's tear, a writ of passage through the realm most holy. I began my ascent at the foot of the Tree Gate, gripping the numerous out jutting boughs and naturals handholds to scale the gate. My years of training served me well upon the face of that colossus, its face was sheer and nigh nonnegotiable for men, but even then, I was more.

It was thus with some humor as I completed my ascent that I wondered how Syllabear and his girth too stood atop its heights. He stared into the distance, into the sunrise, a hand placed upon _Kisha's_ shaggy coat, oblivious to my entry though my presence through the _Maltea_ would have no doubt informed him of so. Yet the strangeness of this day had just dawned, others too congregated upon the gate.

Mirana, High Priestess of Elune was the first to greet me. She dipped a finger into the vial clipped to her belt, and ran it over my brow, cleansing me with Gaia's lifeblood, "May Elune smile upon you child."

It was with surprise that I received such a benediction. Elves often spoke of her guidance, Priestesses would offer it as a greeting, but to call the Mother Moon to grace one with her favor was rare. Her power and favors were not needlessly called upon for the masses, only rights of initiation, battles and trials merited such a calling. I nodded in all solemnity; grateful this once for Syllabear's instruction on the schooling of control over the mind, thought and face, "And may the light of her hand direct your path."

She acknowledged me with the silent atmosphere of thanks Elves seemed to create with the merest shift of their posture, placing her lithe grace back between the acolytes that flanked her. I saw Watchers and Sentinels upon the wall, each staring into the far horizon, waiting. And I him, bent but unbowed by the eons, Antlers rising high above his head like the crown of Gaia. Furion, Arch-Druid, Prophet, Elf-Lord. His gnarled staff of Ash in his left hand and his son, Magina Mage Breaker standing by his right.

In the company of Titians, I made haste to my master's side as was my right and station. I proffered him a deep bow, "Master."

"Davion," he murmured, surprisingly swift in his greeting. A large hand moving to find my shoulder and lifting me upright. He gestured for me to stand by his right and I obliged, skirting _Kisha_ as I took my station upon the gate, "Why am I called master?"

"Purpose."

That was enough. I fell silent, unmoving by his side. My sight bearing my mind upon its wings, over the pines and past the singing brooks to skim across the worn track that served as a road through the forest's unchartered depths. It was there that I saw them. Riding armoured astride proud destriders, their pennants fluttering in the wind, spear tips and lances glittering in the morning light they can. Their immaculately groomed steeds cantering across the dirt as the column arrayed themselves before the gate. One rode afore his cortege, I watched in near fascination, never forgetting the sight of dew upon the man of hid steed that sparkled in the sunlight. He dismounted, removing his helmet with a flourish and a bow to reveal his hawkish profile and grey hair cropped close to the scalp, "Hail!" And such was thus, in eleven years, I saw another of my own kind.

It is strange that till today, I yet harbor the notion of being Elven. Of course I know very well what I look like, incredibly tall for a human, with hair the color of straw that stood in an unruly tangle of tame spikes and ran down the nape of my neck. My face might be described as bloodless, so pale it is that no amount of sun has yet to do more than bronze it, in contrast though, my lips were an eerie shade of crimson that when I willed so, can look very mean. And my eyes, as my flatterers might say, were sapphires and I have little doubt that they hold the coldness of those gems. So you see, I do not in any way resemble a Night Elf, yet at heart, I am yet one. And it was with that Elven sense of suspicion and curiosity that I appraised my own kind. There was in other words, no sense of elation or homecoming in seeing another man, for I am Elven.

"Hail Lord Pelanur, come and be welcomed," Furion replied in a voice that like Syllabear, effortlessly conveyed that sense of age and time. Yet without altering its timbre or tone, his voice resonated like a blast from a warhorn. I felt a ripple in the fabric of _Maltea_, the natural energies that flowed through all rushing aside as the wards guarding the gate were lowered, permitting the column access into our lands. My Prophet gave a lazy flick of his staff, it was but a stirring from his motionless vigil, yet the power in that one move was palatable. Wood animated and boughs moved of their own free will, forming a bridge that ferried us to the earth. I watched, enthralled by this awe inspiring yet callous display of power, mesmerized as Furion walked to join the honorable Lord Pelanur. The ability to command I think, lies not solely with innate talent, but he who commands must also be a showman, such was the lesson I learnt on the day I met destiny.

"Come." Syllabear laid a hand on my shoulder, steering me to join the host. I reluctantly obeyed, shuffling after my master, wondered how one such as I could stand amongst the lofty company of legends.

"Is this him?" Lord Pelanur motioned to where I cowered, my lips drawn across my face in the thin line and my back rigid as I met gaze of the Paladin. He was a fascination study, old yet hale, much like an Elf, yet his air and signature within the _Maltea_ was utterly alien. Unlike the Elves, men lack the sense of physical stature and age that an Elf possesses, yet their spirits burn like wildfire as opposed to the calm beats of the Elves. Mortality's coil I learnt, was both a blessing and a curse.

I was very much awestruck, firstly at even being noticed by the great man, though hindsight proves that amongst Elves I was quite conspicuous, but too by Furion's grave nod. The Paladin appraised me, nervously thumbing his warhammer as he did so. Nervous as I was, I stood all the straighter, strangely the urge to lash out reared its head within my breast. I clenched my fist but left it at that even as a film of sweat broke out upon my forehead, and I felt the creeping onset of a fever. A hand instinctively drifted to the pouch of Bitterbark at my belt. Finally, the Paladin nodded, seemingly satisfied by his inspection of me, "The light bless you."

His face though registered a mingled hotchpotch of relief and disappointment, as if he had been searching for something dangerous, but yet failed to discover its lair. I gratefully slipped a piece of Bitterbark into my mouth as we moved on.

"With me," Syllabear whispered, guiding me from the party and up to the walkways that linked the bowers from tree to tree. I followed him in silence, engrossed in my thoughts and speculations of what would result from today's series of most peculiar events. I followed lines of thought and probability as trained, stemming conclusion from reason, answers from questions, yet only one thing, improbable as it was connected the pieces. War.

"What do you know Davion, of the conflict in the north?" Syllabear stopped by a bower that turned out to be his, heaving aside the wooden frame of the door as he motioned for me to enter is domain. _Kisha_ was no where in sight. I slipped past him and into the rounded bower, making little note of its interior that so resembled the tent all those years ago as I settled upon a pile of rugs, my mind saturated by thoughts of war. Like most others, my knowledge of that far off conflict was fragmentary at best. It was common knowledge that the Undead Scourge under the Lich King Ner'Zhul descended upon the civilized world, hoping to lay fire and ruin to all and that an alliance of Men, Orcs, Elves and their allies under the flag of the Sentinel stood as a staunch bulwark against the enemy tide. Yet that was all to it. Of course periodic news came about this famous victory or that devastating defeat, but the issue was that in the end, no ground was truly won or lost. As will all, my interest in the unending war waned.

It was such that I told my master, watching his face that registered no surprise or anger at my ignorance. Though I sensed his marginal displeasure, he did naught but nod and when he spoke, his voice was soft, "You have child, the gist of our problem."

I shrugged and nodded, no words were needed, and thus I said nothing.

"We fight an endless war, one that profits the enemy with every passing day. For each of us who falls, they gain. Their numbers burgeon daily, we cannot go on."

I answered with a grave sigh, voicing that which he wished me to say, "How may I serve?"

My master stood with a grunt, ambling to an immense atlas that adorned the wall of his chamber. He placed a stubby finger upon a stylized forest that lay at the heart of the world, "From Ashenvale, through the wild lands where none rule," his finger ran across mountains and forests, streams and valleys, ruins and towns, "to the farthest shore upon the East. To Yahgd. There you may find the Pillar of Heaven, a lighthouse that reaches to the realm of the Gods. Atop its lofty peaks you may find the Divine Rapier, Godslayer, take it and bear it to the war. Then we may find victory."

All this I absorbed in silence. The rigors and hardships of my journey had yet to set in, the magnitude of what I was to do a distant notion. I stood and bowed, "It will be done."

"So shall it be. But now listen well, there is one thing you must know." His voice and face fell. Never had had I seen my master looked so old. He plodded over and sat. Never had I seen my master look so afraid, "In this world Davion, there are creatures greater than Orc, Men or Elves. There is one race that defies all, it is their nature to be so. A law unto themselves, neither Gaia nor the Gods holds sway over them, masters of air and fire, shape changers, writers and keepers of the percepts. They called themselves _Drak'Kul_ in their ancient tongue. We know them as Dragons."

"Why do you tell me this?" I whispered. For all I had stumbled through this morning, it was yet my master's fear that brought me closest to the threshold of the abyss.

"I speak now for it is your birthright and curse that their blood runs through your veins. You are _Drak'Kul_."

"My apologies master but I cannot believe this tale," I retorted. Shock I think, bore me to the brink. I sat all the straighter, my posture rigid, it hurt to breath. I begged and railed in my mind, hoped against all hope that he would retract those words. Syllabear's agitation but grew.

"You must know, and you must fight. The fevers, the voices, your furnace heart that burns in your eyes. It is all there, the mark of the _Drak'Kul_. You cannot, Cannot Davion, let it possess you," he railed, reason deserted him. In this moment when the weight upon his heart lifted, Syllabear lost the Elven composure, lost that which bounded him. I reached through the _Maltea_, touching his mind, calming him with the soothing power Druids exercised over frightened beasts.

"I am a man master..." I drifted off. There was no point in arguing, no point in fighting. In my heart I accepted it as thus because I was yet ignorant. I accepted it like one accepting death, that too was because I was ignorant. To be _Drak'Kul_ was so much more, and less.

"For all our sakes, I hope you remain as such," he snarled in reply, for the one and only time, I saw the bear under his skin momentarily surface.

"I will."

"Good." He settled, "Now go, rest and tomorrow, you will live the life of a man. Get used to the sun, your journey begins ere the full light of Elune."

I bowed and left. The news that I was to embark upon a quest seemed a distant echo. Nothing mattered then, save my insistence that I was not a monster.


	5. Azgalor

I staggered back to my chambers in the Hall of Hunters as the sun rose above the canopy of the forest, fingers of light playing across the dew kissed leaves. They sparkled like emeralds hidden amongst piles of gold in a Dragon's hoard. But I was in little cheer to have marveled at such beauty, part of me yet reeled, silently screaming in denial of what had passed. Humanity, or the constant state that we posses in both perception and fact, is a decidedly precious thing. Only when our mind's illusion of who we are is shattered do we yearn for simpler days when all was painted in the same dull pastel tones.

My vehement war against the revelation of my heritage drove me on with a vengeance. Sleep was a distant preoccupation upon my mind. Somewhere in its depths, it recognized my weary body and pleaded for rest, but my thirst was a blade honed by demand. I skirted my chambers and made for the upper chambers. I refused to accept the hand that I had been dealt, and for the first time, I could not, refused to, pass my master's words for the gospel truth that I had always assumed he offered. Thus the foundations for my long rebellion was laid, it is a war I yet fight today. Still, against fate, victory is nonexistent.

As I had expected, the archives were deserted. It was strange that in all those years, I had never been to it beneath the light of day. It was a warren of spacious chambers and corridors dominated by a certain haughty, forbidding air that had intimidated me in my youth; I can yet remember the shelves of tomes that adorned the walls and the musty smell of the ancient texts that lay amongst their modern contemporaries. Lessons were extensively conducted in there, it was in those chambers that I learnt my letters, astrology, mathematics and the arts of the mind. But by day, the great chandelier that hung at its heart was extinguished, and the only light was that of the sun that leaked in through the shuttered windows, casting long shadows across the corridors.

I padded amongst the shelves, hushed by the unnatural cloak of silence that accompanied this font of knowledge both ancient and arcane, its demeanor bordering on the sacred. I contemplated the wisdom of lighting a lantern for the added illumination in the dank dim, but somehow, doing that seemed a heresy.

I pressed on. 

It was without initial purpose that I searched the texts, past recounts of old battles and tomes of lore. I was perhaps, afraid of finding that which I sought, truth is sometimes a bitter pill better left untouched. Thus, it was with some apprehension and dread that by the hand Fate the Whore had dealt me, I stumbled upon it by chance. With a sense of dark dread and cursing myself for a fool, I withdrew a scroll and held it before me.

It was an ancient relic, one I deemed it a copy of a text far older, yellowed by the passage of the ages. Faded archaic script flowed across its face, too old to have been used in the past hundred years, but the script was young when compared alongside the context of its contents. Still, I could read well enough by the dim light.

--- --- ---

_The Drak'Kul were ancient ere the firstborn walked creation. Masterpiece constructs of Gaia the Earthmother, for a little while they stood in the glory of the Pantheon, scions of the Sacred Flame which they guarded against the Defilers. It was for their unswerving duty and vigilance, that Oronus the All-Father granted them feathered wings of purest gold._

_Yet it was upon fleshly wings of their own wrought from hottest flame that they rose in rebellion against the Heavens. Wroth by their arrogance, Oronus had sought to smite them with the Judgment and cast the blasphemers from creation. But the Drak'Kul had taken the Sacred Flame into themselves and Oronus was pulled down by Thanatos the Godslayer, whose furnace heart took the All-Father by dread surprise and destroyed him. Thus began the thousand year war that spanned creation, the Legion of the Gods pitted against the Drak'Kul broods._

_It was a reckoning none would easily forget. For the thousand years they warred, uncounted billions were put to the flame and the sword. Thanatos himself was torn from the sky by Belucalla the Lightcaller, son of Oronus, who was in turn slain by in the fires Dreadwing the Black. A thousand others, Drak'Kul and the greater Gods alike perished in the fires of war, their names forever seared into the list of the fallen. Whole peoples were slaughtered, entire nations burnt to a cinder, creation was choked by ash. Only Gaia the Earthmother, creator of the Drak'Kul was spared the wrath of the fallen. _

_The cost of their long war was great, only when life upon the world was all but spent and creation rent asunder did an uneasy truce settle between the survivors. The Gods retained their seat of power in the cosmos, while the world and Hells were claimed by the Drak'Kul._

_Today, few of the great ones yet remain. Their existences hidden, unconfirmed save in the rarest of circumstances, few of the lesser races have looked upon their glory and fewer have lived. Still, it is believed that amongst the remnants of their race yet walk the elder Dreadwing the Black and his consort Rainbow, Arcaron, he whose wings rent the sky and Nifelggar the Wyrm Lord. Of the others, nothing is known._

_Perhaps the four are the last, or perhaps they once again breed, preparing a second brood to continue their long war..._

_--- --- ---_

I trembled like a child as the text trailed off. Was it my fate to join my kind in their war? To seek vengeance for names which meant nothing to me? I lowered the parchment and curled amongst the cushions I had settled in. As if their mere names could conjure their presence, the first onsets of fever gripped me. I reached for my ever present pouch of bitterbark, chewing on three strips in rapid succession. A gross overdose, but it had seemed the right thing to do at that point in time.

I was cold, strength seeped from me, carried into the beyond by the draft that leaked into the library. I huddled amongst the cushions, my thoughts of Dragons and wars as I wiped sweat from my brow. My eyelids were heavy, limbs numb due to my abuse of the drug, I could hardly raise an arm, let along draw my cloak around my freezing frame. I willed sleep upon me, unheeding of my better sense that warned of the punishments I would incur should I be found in the library while Sol dominated the sky. But I lost that one battle and sleep gripped me.

--- --- ---

A wasteland materialized from the depths of a dream, its presence rising around me with frightening alacrity. Oblivion gave way, replaced by red blasted plains pockmarked by smoking craters that noxious green haze oozed from. I could smell its repugnance, of decay and charred flesh, tasted the salty the air, and the sky burned.

Then I, or perhaps what passed for my mental projection of my body upon this plain was gripped by a horny talon. Immensely strong, it lifted me with ease, claws painfully tightening around my throat. I choked and made a strangled cry escaped my lips, pounding upon the claw that gripped me, but its scales were ribbed and keen as a dagger, my knuckles were bloodied in moments.

The claw brought be before a hideous face, never before had I encountered an abomination as such. A mouth filled with multiple layers of teeth twisted into sneering grin as it brought me before its horned face. Green pupiless eyes squinted into mine.

_Who are you?_

I ignored the monster and fought to pry myself free from its death grip. The skin upon my callused palms splitting at the touch of its sharp, burning scales.

_Who are you! Do you dare deny Azgalor, runt!_

I struggled against the vice around my throat, flailing legs catching nothing but air. I spat at the face, determined to go through with this charade of defiance. I do not know what compelled me to have fought thus. I should have been terrified, cowed into meek compliance by the sheer might of the creature whose mercy I had been unwillingly thrusted upon. But I only remembered rage, white hot anger that drove me with senseless fury against the impossible.

_Who are you! What do you seek!_

Like a wild-thing I continued to battle, emitting choked screeches as I attempted to bash open his hold upon me. The abomination brought me close, till the unholy mass of his face loomed before me. I punched, bloodied fist meeting ivory tooth. The beast hissed and tightened its stranglehold, killing me in its grasp. I roared in furious retaliation and slashed at his face.

There was a flash, of fire perhaps, or something worse, but I was hurled from its grasping talons. The world seemed to take on an edge of unreality, whether I stumbled or flew I do not know, but the land rushed by. Fading, cracking before my eyes, an earsplitting shriek like the horns of the apocalypse, heralds of the Ragnarok, sounded. The wasteland fragmented, I tumbled from my pile of cushions.

Panting, clutching my knuckles that I was sure I had ruined, I sat up. Sol had made his passage across the cosmos, hovering over the western horizon. A bar of light lay across my face, my eyes watered, but light was a comfort all the same. I checked my knuckles, they tingled as if a memory of pain had been imprinted upon them, but the wounds were strangely absent, nor were claw marks present upon my neck.

Shaken, I stood and ambled over to the shelf where I hastily replaced the scroll. Though denial's influence was strong, I was not so quick to have discounted my dream for one. It had been too real, sharper than it had the right to be and I felt strangely raw.

Azgalor. I frowned and pursed my lips. That name was well known, an old wife's tale meant to frighten children. They spoke of a Daemon Lord bloated by a millennia of evil, living only to wreck his depredation across the land, fire and ruin rode in his entourage, instruments of his dark will. Fools spoke of the final hour of the world when his legions will march alongside that of Lucifer and the shades of the Dark Lord, to bring about the end of all ends.

But the Elves believed in the Daemons, and through them, I did. Too many records of those horrific past battles remain, too many memories exist. Though yet a skeptic, I did not doubt their existence, nor chafe at the might of the three Daemon Lords that yet dwelled in out world. The West is proof of it, a thousand leagues of wasteland and burning plains. The existence of such monsters was a blasphemy against Gaia herself, yet they remained, a totem that served to remind us that evil yet lurked in the heart of the world. And that the Scourge was but a passing plague, a shadow of the horrors in the west.

I slipped from the library, through the yet deserted halls and into my chamber where I set and pondered, awaiting the descent of Sol.

The Daemons were an enigma in this world. No matter how long our ancestors had warred against the power of the Trios, we truly never learnt the truth about them. There were hints of course, that they were fallen Gods from their own world, driven into ours via a Portal, what the wise described as a rip upon the fabric of time, space and reality. Others had claimed they fell from the skies upon a great vessel, a ship that sailed the stars, and that it was the crash that had created the wastelands, so great the heat and destruction it had wrought when it hit the earth. But I cared little for such, Daemons were but another creature to me, perhaps better versed in the fey and the arcane, but salt of the earth nonetheless, neither greater nor lesser then Men, Elf or Orc.

Still, they were impediments in my quest, Azgalor had betrayed that much in his desperation to wring the details of my quest from me. But still, such did not add up, the Divine Rapier was a weapon intended against the Scourge. And unless I was severely shortsighted or else deliberately kept in the dark, the Daemons were not involved in this sorry war. Or did they direct the Scourge from the shadows, their insidious visages hovering behind the bodies of our hated foes?

My quest hovered like a closing arrow in the distance, the sting of reality acknowledged but unfelt. Titans now rose to block my uncertain path, clothed in the form of child-haunting nightmares, but fear was a distant thing. Training and resolve had seen to its elimination. I but silently remarked that I needed a better weapon.


End file.
